


The Little Deaths

by ohne



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, F/M, Het, M/M, Multi, Original Female Character - Freeform, Rimming, Slash, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-29
Updated: 2010-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-13 10:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohne/pseuds/ohne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex, death, and inter-band relations on the set of the Haifisch video.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Deaths

1.

This isn’t the same warehouse, yet Schneider still imagines he can see his own old shoeprints scraped through the dust in front of the chair. Whatever they were, those ghosts are quickly scratched out by Till’s boots.

As the grips tie him to the chair, Till asks for tighter, until straining produced little other than an unreal bulge of muscle and a wooden creak. He looks huge like that, arms forced behind his back, legs spread to keep his balance and head bowed for the shot. Huge, and helpless, and staring despairingly up at Schneider as the lid of the jug is flipped open.

Later, in some uninhabited corner of the warehouse, Schneider kisses Till and finds he tastes like fake blood and gasoline. There’s rope in Till’s back pocket and Schneider uses it to lash once more his sore, red wrists.

All they have time for is hurried, inelegant grinding, but it still makes Schneider come so hard the afterimage of an explosion burns inside his eyelids.

2.

Fake snow doesn’t get any less horrible. Richard _pleh_ s the soapy grit out of his mouth and tries not to bitch about it fucking up his hair. Not to mention the fact that you can’t smoke around it.

Jokes are made about how he might be sawing through the rope with a little too much relish. Richard laughs along, but he’s still tense with something that’s not quite nicotine withdrawal. The rope slackens and falls, take after take, and by the end Richard needs a smoke very badly.

He’s found in his car, moodily sucking down a Marlboro. At the knock, Richard flicks open the passenger door lock and Till slides inside. He licks the smoke taste from Richard’s mouth and pulls him over the seat divider. There’s a perfunctory “fuck me?” crushed against Till’s lips; before the sentence is over they’re both fumbling in the glove box for condoms and lube.

Trousers squirmed off, Richard opens himself and sinks onto Till’s offered cock in record time. He rides until he’s frantic, gasping and aching, and when he comes there’s the sudden, terrible sensation of free fall.

3.

Olli is not the biggest fan of his spacesuit. It’s hard to find one for a man of his height, so it doesn’t quite fit. The boots, gloves, crotch and helmet tug on all his too-long ends.

It doesn’t take long at all to film the little snippets needed. Even so, Olli’s soon ready for it to be over.

In the vacuum of space, a human’s eardrums will burst, their tissue will swell, and their bodily fluids will evaporate. Films will tell you that the human body just explodes outright, but it’s subtler than that.

In the parking lot, Till offers, “drink?”

They get a hotel room, instead. Over the course of his life, Olli’s grown tired of the phrase ’still waters run deep,’ so often has he heard it. Yet he can’t ignore the truth therein as Till reads him down to the murky bottom, sees what he needs, and pins Olli to the pillows with one hand on his throat and the other unbuttoning his flies.

The weight, the smothering, a handful of strokes, and Olli swells and bursts.

4.

They’re alone in the dressing room for a moment. Till gyrates his oversized foam rubber body, stroking the stomach, saying, “try to find my dick under all this.” Flake manages to turn outright laughter into a scoff. On set, he shoves the spoon in with more force than is needed, and watches Till smile beatifically through his gag reflex.

Shed of their costumes, both of them are sticky with sweat and reeking of latex. “Eat me out,” Till demands, backing his ass up into Flake until the other man is pinned against the door. The fat suit always makes him inexplicably horny.

Flake swats him away. “Shower first.”

A hasty soaping, and Till is already bearing Flake to the shower floor. “I want to sit on your face.”

He wants to respond casually, but Flake finds he has no words at all. So instead he pulls Till onto him with all the urgency he can’t describe. On his thighs there’s still the aftertaste of the suit. Further up, to his heavy cock, balls, and further still, all that’s washed away in favor of flesh. Flake spreads Till open and devours until his jaw aches. The man kneeling over his head moans and shakes with sincerity.

Till shows his gratitude by practically riding Flake through the mattress, but he is still made to buy dinner. Both of them are starving.

5.

“I don’t really get to spank him?” Till looks with mock disappointment from the thick pad to the grip who’s placing it in his lap. Everyone can tell it’s a joke. Even so, very out of frame, Paul blushes.

“My hand is sore.” Later, Till displays his pinkened palm, which Paul cups in his own hands with a moue of sympathy.

“You were really going to town on that mat.” Paul doesn’t try to quash the shine that such a phrase brings to his eyes. They’re alone by now, anyway.

“Enjoy my performance?” Till’s eyes have an answering shine.

“I suppose. Could have done without the dress.”

The tour prop department won’t miss one pair of black surgical gloves. They’re a little big for Paul’s hands, but they’ll do. He ties Till to the bed with black cord and padded cuffs, and watches him sink peacefully into a headspace only he knew.

Each spank lands with a beautiful smack, solid flesh wobbling outward beneath the impact. Paul’s favorite spot is the apex of the cheeks, where they defy the male tendency toward flatness and bubble out enough to look almost delicate. Here Paul turns the skin a hot red, destroying notions of fragility with every impact of gloved hand.

Till jerks ecstatically against his restraints. When Paul finally fucks him, every thrust slides over his prostate and the sensation builds in unbearable intensity. He battles upstream through his orgasm, five names spilling out of him like a litany of saints, coming so all-consumingly it reminds both of them--in the split second before annihilation--of the French; _le petit mort_.

Afterward, as usual, Paul tries to pull Till closer, to parse him out in those few unguarded, peerless seconds after sex.

But the man is already fast asleep, dead to the world.

(6)

The video model is like a billion others; lanky and toned, tits a perfect handful, fat lips curving into just the smile you want. Yet, Till still falls for it. He always will.

She licks the stamp, and he imagines her licking something else. He tries to flirt between takes, but she just smooths his false mustache, giggling. She makes him feel like a grandfather, and this is irritating until he realizes he is a grandfather.

He shuts up for the rest of the shoot.

Her mind seems to change on the walk off-set, and she pulls him by the robe-sleeve into her own dressing room.

Eyelids heavy, Till leans back against the door and watches the model peel the strings of her bikini away from her skin. He pushes one hand into the swim shorts under his robe and cups his slowly swelling cock. His thoughts wander and the flesh before him takes myriad shapes.

When the model’s hands grip and stroke him, Till thinks of Schneider’s strong fingers. In the concentrated tensing of her jaw he looks for Richard’s muscularity. In her quiescent, needy silence he hears Olli‘s tacit confidence. She sucks his cock, and when Till looks down he expects to see Flake’s thin lips, glasses slipping down his nose. She is gentle, going with just a murmur as Till lifts her against the wall and fucks her there. In the face of this emptiness, Till shuts his eyes and imagines the fight Paul would have given him.

He comes in two anticlimactic pulses. It hollows him out. His eyes open to the model's face, flushed and as yet unsatisfied. Realization, then disappointment, creep at the corners of her eyes. Ignoring his protesting knees, Till kneels and fucks his own taste out of her with his tongue. She makes the most elated sounds when coming, and with his tongue still touching her fluttering walls he looks up at her haloed hair and high breasts and finds that he can't think of anything.

 

~das ende


End file.
